A Tight Grip

She grabs my hand
her sweaty palm licks my own.
We wait, huddled together in my tiny bedroom,
cluttered with old magazines, a stereo, a collection of books.
Her hazelnut eyes reach mine.
As silent tears pour down both of our faces
and as the screams get louder,
the voices get louder,
our hearts beat louder,
the screams and yells and tears and anger and hate
and the words I never thought would ever be said
I hate you
rolling in the pit of my stomach, threatening to come up to my mouth
to leak in a sideways slant onto the carpet.
I sneak a peek at the tiny little crack at the door,
as long arms move about furiously in talk, making a message to the other
words that are too loud for my sister’s ears ring in my own head
arguments that will never reach an ending point
as they race around and around furiously until it bursts and explodes
into tiny, millions of millions of pieces, cutting four different hearts separately.
I can feel the vibrations of the house
as words pour out of the sink and onto tiled floors,
accusations slashing through fabric like a sharp army knife.
I glance down at my sister,
Her big eyes even wider as she watches our family cut each other
with a thousand needles disguised into words.
Her hand grips mine tighter, tighter, until I cannot feel my own fingers
but I do not make a sound.